He wasn't around the festival much that day, the previous day's dance being something that demanded a little extra recuperation time. Wing wanders over in the evening though, drawn but the halo of firelight as it grows into a roaring bonfire. The dance and many of the events and conversations of the days previous had given him a lot to think about, so Wing's sitting there, gold optics absorbed in the dancing of the flames, the firelight making his white and red plating turn the color of sunset. One arm hugs around a drawn up knee and he looks perhaps a little morose, an unusual air for the typically upbeat jet.

His other hand cradles the slip of paper he took to write his goal on. It's folded into some kind of three dimensional shape, or it seems there was an attempt at least, except the form is unrecognizable. Axe had taught him once to fold plastivellum into beautiful shapes but the memories aren't serving Wing properly today. He retries ever now and again, until the paper doesn't hold shape anymore at all, and certainly wouldn't take the weight of his aspirations if they were penned there instead. He crumples it into his hand then, wondering if it's bad luck to pitch it into the fire in its current state. He's one for symbolism, Wing is. Perhaps too much so?